


The tobacconist's holiday and other stories

by emei



Category: Albert Nobbs (2011)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Queer Character, Canon Queer Relationship, Character Death Fix, F/F, Fix-It, Genderqueer Character, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-18
Updated: 2012-12-18
Packaged: 2017-11-21 12:14:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/597629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emei/pseuds/emei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There were some whispers when the butler Mr Nobbs married the maid Helen Dawes, but they quieted quickly. Mr Nobbs' tobacconist is such a lovely little shop, after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The tobacconist's holiday and other stories

**Author's Note:**

  * For [toastpiercer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/toastpiercer/gifts).



There were some whispers when Albert Nobbs married the kitchen maid Helen Dawes - it was hurried, more of a winter wedding than a spring one, and wouldn't one expect a yearlong engagement from a man as proper as Mr Nobbs? And even more so when the young Mrs Nobbs' waist started growing round quite quickly. But Mr Nobbs was an honourable man, and what the maid Helen Dawes might or might not have done was swept away by her marriage and mostly forgotten as youthful indiscretions. 

Nobbs’ tobacconist is a well-kept little shop. A warm welcoming fire in the inner room in winter, a jug of lemonade on the counter in the hottest days in summer. When mr Nobbs has the counter, every now and again laughter comes trickling through from above, bright and clear, high boy-tones and the warmer, lower tones of his mother. Then Mr Nobbs' efficient movements still for a moment into an inward smile, as if this happiness still surprises him somehow. Most of the customers smile a little to see it, but most of all those who ever met Mr Nobbs as a dutiful butler with a particular talent for unassumingly melting into the surroundings and seeming to expect nothing for himself. 

If you happen to walk by Nobbs’ tobacconist in a calm moment, perhaps at closing time, you might catch Mr and Mrs Nobbs alone by the counter. The baby is sleeping under a blanket on the chair by the fireplace in the inner room, both of his parents looking in through the half-open door every few moments. The light is on, and the night that has fallen outside hides you when you glance through the window. They are standing next to each other behind the counter, elbows brushing, counting the money from the sales of the day or reorganising a case of lovingly rolled cigarettes. 

Whenever Albert says something odd, Helen looks at him steadily and says, “You are the strangest man I ever met”, her voice full of fondness. And the look on her face is most peculiar sometimes, when she thinks no one is looking and she sweeps her fingers across Albert's temple lightly, where a small scar is visible right below the hairline. As if she can't make up her mind whether she's proud or enchanted or deeply annoyed. It's the kind of look a missus might wear if her man were brawling outside a pub late at night to defend her honour, but neither Mr Nobbs or his wife would ever put themselves in such a situation, all their neighbours are sure of it.

In the middle of summer they close the tobacconist for a week and head out to the seaside to visit their friend the painter, Mr Paige. Hubert is a little gaunter than before, his manners a little more subdued or just with a different gravitas. Nearly losing Catherine to the flu took a harsh toll on him, and Catherine confided to Helen the first time they met that he hovered, worrying himself over her every little need. It was in early spring, shortly after the marriage, when Albert was carefully planning and rethinking every little detail of the renovation that was turning the old building into the tobacconist. Helen’s pregnancy was making itself known, and the dust and annoyance from the shop under renovation kept escaping up into the bedroom on top (finished to move into by the time of the wedding). It was making her queasy and quite irritable. So Catherine sent Hubert off to the city to paint the Nobbs’ shop, and made Helen come visit to get some seaside air and provide her with enough company to keep Hubert calm and also out or her hair for a little while. 

They walked slowly along the beaches, pausing when Catherine needed to catch her breath, and talked. Helen asked all kinds of impertinent questions and Catherine laughed, and answered or told her off for being a nosy busybody, and showed her seamstresses’ tricks for how to make mended dresses look new and how to make men’s shirts conceal betraying womanly curves.  
“The trick to a marriage like ours,” Catherine said, turning a seashell over in her hand and looking thoughtful, “is to believe in your heart-of-hearts that you deserve your happiness. If we take our space and live our lives like it’s - like it’s owed us, I suppose, then we can. And then people don’t question. The one thing we have to do ourself is to believe in the truth of it. Happy marriages don’t just fall from the sky, love, they’re made. Especially ones like ours'. It’s all hard work and silly belief in the right to joy.”

That was the start of it. And now the Nobbs’ close up their shop for a week of holidays, pack their bags and take their son with them to go for their summer visit, like Albert thinks silently they will do every summer, one glorious week at the beach every year, in front of them like pearls on a string. He looks at Helen, tucking an escaping strand of hair behind her ear with one hand and lugging a suitcase with the other and debates telling her that - and when he’s decided not to she’s caught the look and demanded to be told whatever is on his mind, right now. He obliges, and she shakes her head, giggling, oh you strange romantic creature, you. Albert blesses the day she started laughing instead of frowning at his non sequiturs. 

Catherine and Hubert have prepared baskets full of food, and they spend the first afternoon picnicking on the beach. It’s windy enough to blow sand all over the sandwiches, crunching when they chew, and to set Helen’s hair dancing around her face just within reach of sticky toddler fingers.

“Oh give him over here,” Hubert says, reaching out. “Come to uncle Hubert, Albie, I’ll teach you all the good tricks.” 

Helen finishes her sandwich in peace, then leans back on her elbows in the sand. She’s picture-perfect like this, like a painting, sunlight catching in her hair and the grains of sand alike. A little tired around the eyes but mouth crinkled up at the corners, like there is something irresistibly lovely about the view. 

Catherine goes up to the house for more drinks, and Hubert takes Albie by the hand to go explore the waterline. It’s ebb, and the beach is full of sea shells and crabs’ hidey-holes. The seagulls are swooping above, crying out for food and wind. Helen moves over to lean against him, and when he wraps an arm around her waist to keep her steady she rests her head on his shoulder. As they watch, Hubert hoists Albie up on his shoulders and laughs more carefree than in a long while. 

Helen places a hand on top of his, twists their fingers together, and Albert’s breath leaves him in a rush, unexpected. She turns her face up, smile playful but eyes serious, says, “Are you happy, Mr Nobbs?”.

And Albert Nobbs thinks that oh, this is what happiness can feel like - this swooping lightness in the chest, their child’s gurgling laughter on the wind and Helen’s warm hands sure on his.

“Yes. Very,” he tells her, gravely, and her eyes go warm. It it lucky that the beach is secluded, because then she kisses him like she wants to be kissed and Albert replies in kind.

The wind is turning a little chilly, but this is only one day of one summer week, and there are many more to come.

**Author's Note:**

> I have chosen to use male pronouns throughout for both Albert and Hubert, as they both present as male in almost anything we're shown. Applying contemporary identity categories to past contexts and lives is a tricky business I will not attempt - but I do read both of them as identifying more with the role they're taking on than as women crossdressing for practical/economical reasons. That is also the reason for the genderqueer tags. Hope you enjoyed your Yuletide reading!


End file.
